


Packs, Old and New

by JenevaJensen



Series: The Beauty in Deadly Things [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boat Sex, Childbirth, F/M, Family Drama, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Marriage, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reconciliation Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Water Sex, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-07 22:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20477795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenevaJensen/pseuds/JenevaJensen
Summary: Arya and Gendry navigate their relationship as they reconcile family life, House obligations, and their individual needs.





	1. King's Landing

Bran’s raven requesting that Arya and Gendry come to King’s Landing was fortuitous. Arya had corresponded with each of her siblings shortly after her arrival and, for nearly three moons, a flurry of ravens had flown fast between Winterfell, King’s Landing, and Storm’s End. This message was the first directly from Bran. Part of her hoped that he hadn’t been watching her too closely since she’d arrived back. (She couldn’t help but recall the rapid ascent of wings from the top of the Keep during her first night with Gendry.) But his circumspection—a stark contrast to Sansa’s squall of letters, requests, and demands--implied that he knew all too well how and with whom she’d wanted to spend her time. His impeccable timing, now, to her chagrin, confirmed it. 

Embarrassment lingered between Gendry and Tytha and his stubborn shame bled into any attempted moments of intimacy with Arya as well. Although she diligently barred the door when they were alone, he remained guarded and watchful, and, despite her best attempts, disinclined. He’d even insisted upon sleeping apart those handful of nights before leaving Storm’s End. He’d been required to share her cabin once they boarded her ship, but gentle affection—hugs, kisses, caresses--not passion—were all he’d allow. Arya found that the scent and heat of him beside her in their bed made her hungrier for him than ever: she yearned for him now in the same bed she’d yearned for him for nearly six years. But now he was here, beside her, and she still couldn’t have him. A change of scene would be for the best. 

Sailing into the harbor at King’s Landing, Arya marveled at the rebuilt capitol. It was such a contrast to her memory that she couldn’t help but gawk at the new towers, widened, cobbled and clean streets, and happy people. It was the people more than anything that made her heart swell in her chest. Everywhere she looked people were healthy, prosperous, and cared for. Her brother was doing good work. A fanfare and drums rose to greet them as they reached the quayside and docked. King Bran had come to meet them formally as they disembarked. Arya strode confidently down the gangway and stopped in front of him, noting that he was flanked by several faces she knew: Ser Brienne of the Kingsguard, Lord Tyrion—Hand of the King, Davos Seaworth--Master of Ships, and Grand Maester Samwell Tarly. Momentarily, her mind skittered as she realized that she wasn’t certain to which sibling-ruler she owed her allegiance. Was she a citizen of the Six Kingdoms or The North? Both? Neither? Was she as landless and leaderless as Jon and the Free Folk? In this moment with all the Kingslanders watching what mattered was the show. To her right, Gendry was kneeling to her brother; she made her obeisance. “Welcome back, Arya,” Bran smiled his distant smile at her, “And Lord Gendry. It is good to see you both…together.” 

Arya leaned down to hug her brother and whisper, “Thank you for giving us time.” 

“Time marches against all equally; it is not within my power,” was Bran’s enigmatic reply. 

Arya gestured for members of her crew to come forward to present her gift. “I bring detailed maps of lands far beyond Westeros. Lands previously unknown to us and unexplored.” She opened a cube-shaped box, presenting it to Bran. Sam gasped over his King’s shoulder as he saw what the box contained: a finely wrought silver globe--based upon her maps--had been crafted at Storm’s End. “Our world is round,” Arya said, her voice echoing through the crowd, “I present my brother, Bran, King of the Six Kingdoms, Rebuilder of the Realm, with the only true rendering of our known world currently in existence.” The nearby crowd cheered and after Bran made his formal thanks for her gifts and her safe return, they wended their way in a procession back to the restored and improved Red Keep. 

~~~~~~~

“Will you marry?” Ser Davos asked Gendry at dinner, his voice pitched low amid the festive rowdiness.

“If she ever wants to—and gladly. But I will never raise the question again,” Gendry replied solemnly, his eyes casting about the hall, expression easing as he spotted Arya speaking with Brienne. The past week and a half had been difficult. It had crossed his mind to ask her again in the immediate aftermath as a means of cleaning up the situation, but he’d come to his senses before making that mistake again. He was at least a little wiser now, though his impulse towards reckless dumbassery where she was concerned persisted. “Am I that obvious? Are we?” he asked the older man.

“That you’re besotted with her? Aye,” Ser Davos nodded. “She’s a tougher one to read, your girl. She mostly looks at you as if she’d like to wolf you down like a good dinner.”

Gendry choked on his ale. His mind flew to the night before when he’d awoken to the sound of his own name sighing from her lips in the bunk beside him, her fingers working at herself frantically seeking her own release. He’d felt guilty listening and feigning sleep. Guilt layered on guilt. He wanted her. He’d never stopped wanting her. Neither of them had done anything wrong; it was time he stopped acting as if they had. His shame was punishing them both. And, he realized, his stomach sinking, holding her at arm’s length as he’d been doing was likely to send her away. 

“What of the girls? Have they taken to her?” Davos asked, bringing his mind firmly back to the present.

Gendry finished chewing and swallowed before replying, “Like fleas to a dog.” Davos chuckled. “Fyffe thinks she hung the moon. Tytha trains with her every day--she’s her fiercest protector and shadow,” he boasted. He was proud of Tytha’s impulse to do that, even though it hadn’t been necessary. 

“Wonder where they get that from,” Davos teased dryly. 

Gendry snorted. “I know. You’re right. I’m hopeless.”

“Hopeful, more like. She kept you waiting a long time. I’m happy for you, lad.”

~~~~~~~

Well past the hour of the wolf, Arya found herself dreaming of the hot springs at Winterfell: how it felt stepping into the pools; the warm water rising with each step of her descent; gentle eddies from the springs lapping at her skin. Gradually, she became aware that what she was experiencing was not inside the dream, but coming from without. Consciousness returning, she arched into the sensation, sighing. Gendry’s mouth was tasting her, his strong hands stroking her thighs. He’d felt her awaken beneath him and he raised his eyes to hers, settling one hand on her stomach, gentling her. Pausing his movements for a moment, she could feel the susurrus of his words against her sensitive flesh, “I’m sorry,” he murmured, punctuating his words with tantalizing brushes of his lips across her inner thigh. “Sorry I suddenly didn’t know how to be both. Your lover; their father. I love you.” He resumed his ministrations and she tilted her hips against his mouth. He went slowly, unhurried. When she was drenched with arousal, he added a finger, lightly tapping and massaging her folds before curling two fingers inside her as he continued to suck at the nub that usually brought her pleasure first. As her hands began to clutch at his head, he knew she was close. He eased off, blowing lightly over her wet skin and she made a plaintive sound, objecting. But his fingers moved faster inside her, and he added a third, curling his fingertips just slightly and tapping with his middle finger. His other hand spread downward, petting her, just over her pubic bone. He could feel what he was doing inside her from above. Her walls around his fingers spasmed, and her breath caught. A whine escaped her and she bucked. Liquid flooded the hand that was working her and he grinned in satisfaction, keeping his movements steady. In seconds there was a second flood and her legs straightened, juddering on either side of him. He kept going. Hands clutching at the sheets, mewling, feet kicking, again she arched. He put his mouth to her again, alternately flicking and sucking, his fingers probing. As she quaked a fourth time he replaced his fingers with his tongue, stroking her insides as they quivered and pulsed around him. He loved the taste and heat of her. 

Much later, the bed drenched, he’d lost track of how many times she’d peaked, but he kept worshiping her until, tears coursing down her cheeks, her breathing jagged and her body an endless spasm of tremors, she’d summoned what little muscle control she had left to bat at his head with her fingers: “Stop…please…no more,” she exhaled. He obeyed at once, but didn’t go far. Laying solidly between her legs, his head resting at the join of her hip and thigh, he caressed her back into her body: smoothing his hands against hers, over her arms, breasts and belly, along her flanks and thighs, behind her knees. 

Arya hooked one leg languidly across his back as her senses returned. She traced her fingers through his damp, tousled, hair. “Do you think it’s like this for other people?” she asked, softly, “How much we want?”  
She felt his beard tickling her skin as he slowly shook his head. “We know what it’s like not to have—and how quickly it can be lost.” Pressing one last gentle kiss to her hipbone, he succumbed to sleep. Arya’s fingers continued stroking his hair until she drifted off to join him, the birds rustling their morning songs outside the window. 

~~~~~~~

During their third week in King’s Landing, a raven from beyond the wall prompted a summons from Bran. Arya met him before the heart-tree in the Godswood. “It’s from Jon,” he said, passing her the scrap of parchment.

> _Sail north when you’re ready for your next adventure, Arya. It would be good to see you.   
I’ve found no threat or hurry, Bran, but this Long Spring can’t last forever. While it does, I think there is much to explore and answers to be found.   
\- Jon_

Arya’s eyebrows raised as she read the message. “What do you think?” Bran asked, “Will you go?” Arya mused, pacing for several moments before replying.

“I want to see Jon…but not yet,” she said, “I haven’t been to Winterfell—haven’t seen Sansa or met her children. And there is some unfinished business involving Gendry’s eldest.” Bran’s distant gaze didn’t waver, but he’d noticed that she’d said ‘Winterfell’ not ‘home’ and angled his face toward her slightly as she mentioned Tytha. “Do you have an opinion, Your Grace?” 

Bran waved her courtesy away. “Of course not. You are your own master. You always were. What you decide is what is. When the time is right, I will finance the journey. Knowledge and love are ventures worthy of risk.”

Arya studied him. His impassivity rivaled her own. But she’d never heard him speak of love before. “Do you love, Bran?” she finally asked. He rarely seemed fully present, but Arya felt his focus settle completely upon her as he said, “I love so widely it must seem as though I love nothing at all—for you who love so closely. We are more than the last of the Starks now.”

It wasn’t a question, but it felt like he was asking something. Arya was reminded, vividly, of their reunion beside another heart-tree and how disconcerting Bran’s comments could be. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be able to exchange a look with Sansa and rely on her pointed questions to tease meaning from their brother. But Sansa wasn’t here. “You’re a good King,” she offered at last, “Mother and Father would be proud.” 

The ghost of a smile tugged at her brother’s mouth, “Thank you, Arya.”

~~~~~~~

Sailing back from King’s Landing, lounging together in Arya’s bunk, she suddenly asked, “Should they come with us? To Winterfell? After I…,” she raised an eyebrow, not needing to finish the sentence. 

Gendry raised his head from the pillow with a quizzical expression on his face. “The girls?”

“I don’t mean Offstyd and Nymeria, idiot!” Arya grinned and pelted him with some of the dried fruit and nuts she was munching. 

Thriftily collecting them from his chest and popping them into his mouth, Gendry propped himself on one elbow to better meet her eyes. “It’s your family we’re visiting. Family you haven’t seen in years. Some you’ve not even met properly. Do…do you want them to come?” he asked, his pleasure at the idea evident but tentative. 

“I think I do,” Arya replied, dusting her fingers off on the sheet. “If it would suit you. And them.”

“It suits me.” 

“Then we’ll ask them,” Arya declared. Gendry tilted himself, planting a tender kiss into her shoulder. A shiver of delight passed over her. Tracing a finger from his collarbone down his bare chest she said, “But in the meantime, Lord Baratheon, we have a few more hours without any threat—any threat _at all_\-- of bed invasion.” She moved to kiss him lightly, but Gendry seized her, laughing, pulling her down on top of him and rolling her over until she was beneath him. Eyes shining, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her lips. As their tongues met, tangling and teasing, she could feel him hardening against her thigh. Tightening her legs around his hips, she expertly rolled them both sideways until she was straddling him, pinning his wrists to the pillow either side of his head. He grinned up at her, shamelessly. Leaning into her hold on his wrists, she drew the heat of her core slowly up his length, root and stem. His grin vanished. She repeated the motion even more slowly, watching his expression shift, his eyes darken and flame with desire. He rolled his hips beneath her and Arya felt him trying to free his hands from where she held them pinioned. Instead, without releasing him, she steepled her fingers into his, clasping their hands together. She pulled them toward her, tracing the backs of his hands and knuckles over her breasts and down the length of her body before holding them fast at his hips. She leaned over, kissing her way down his chest, as she shimmied her hips down his body, pausing to glance saucily up at him and tonguing his navel before venturing lower. His gasp as she took him into her mouth brought her eyes to meet his once again. His hands clenched against hers. She could see his heart racing as he tried to measure his breaths. His expression was one of exquisite torture—but his gaze never faltered. She marveled at how rarely he closed his eyes when they were pleasuring each other. Her own tended to flutter shut on crests of sensation, but she found his watchful intensity deeply arousing. She was suddenly aware that he’d shifted his leg beneath her, grinding his kneecap against the heat of her center. The pressure felt delectable, but she wanted him inside her. She made one last tongue-swirling journey up his length, sucking strongly on the tip of his cock, causing him to groan a gratifying, “Fuck, Arya,” his fingers arching against the pull of her own. 

As she rose on her knees, she let go of his hands in order to better position him below her. As she slid herself down onto him with a sigh, his thumbs traced the lines of each of the scars on her abdomen, watching the candlelight play along the contours of her body as she moved above him. She’d gripped the rails above the bunk to leverage her movements, her back arched and belly stretched taut before him. His right hand slid from her side, upwards to clutch her breast. She sighed as his hands cupped and molded her—belly to breast—sending sparks shooting from her nipples to her core. Her pupils growing darker with each descent. They were grinding into one another, his hips flexing, hers rotating, her movements growing wilder. He steadied her with one hand, thumbing her quickly above where they were joined and she cried out. He watched her eyes flutter closed, her prolonged gasp, her head tilting back as she rode out her climax. He wasn’t done. Grasping her backside firmly, he rocked her into him with a steady rhythm. In moments she cried out again, her hands clutching at his upper arms, nails drawing blood. He didn’t stop his movements but sucked in a breath at the sensation of her nails biting into his skin. When her eyes opened and met his again, her pupils were blown. Curling one finger inside of her, between his flesh and hers, without ceasing the movement of his hips, he massaged her rapidly. She moaned. He could feel her walls fluttering around his cock and finger in spasms that didn’t seem to end. Her entire body was vibrating. Without warning her cunt shied away from his dripping fingers and he could feel her hips rise inadvertently—as though all sensation was suddenly too much and she needed him out of her body. That had started happening since the night of their reunion—when he’d pleasured her into an exhausted puddle. He pulled her to him firmly one last time. She gasped his name like a plea and he emptied himself inside her. She collapsed against him, the groan of his satisfaction echoing through the cabin.


	2. Two Roads Diverged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya takes on a mission of vengeance in The Reach as Gendry travels north with his daughters on Arya's ship.

A day later, they arrived at Storm’s End very late: after most of the Keep was long abed. After sleeping late and rechristening the Lord’s Chamber—the door firmly barred—they had broken their fast before attending the girls in the nursery solar to apprise them of their travel plans. 

Fyffe had not been out of the Stormlands since Ser Davos and her uncle brought her to Gendry at the age of two. The idea of adventuring north on Arya’s ship sent her into paroxysms of delight; even if it meant leaving her beloved pup behind. 

“Nymeria wouldn’t like it on the ship, Wildfire,” Gendry consoled her, “And there will be horses to ride from White Harbour to Winterfell. She’s too small yet to keep up.” 

“Our own horses?” Tytha asked. She was less tentative in Gendry’s presence now and he’d reclaimed his dignity—their immediate embarrassment receding with the time spent apart. 

“You’ll each have a horse to ride,” Gendry was saying, “But they’ll be on loan from Queen Sansa.”

“My ship wasn’t built to carry horses,” Arya added.

“Is the Queen of the North really your sister?” Fyffe asked, awestruck, “Like Tytha’s mine?”

Arya laughed, ruffling the child’s hair, “Exactly so. Just as King Bran is my brother. Nearly all of my siblings have ruled at one time or another…,” regret passed briefly over her features as she remembered Robb and Rickon, but she continued with an off-handed shrug, “How I ended up with such a lofty family when I’ve done everything I could to avoid it myself…," Such was the will of the gods, it seemed. 

“You married Papa,” Fyffe stated matter-of-factly, answering her rhetorical question. Caught entirely off-guard, Gendry and Arya exchanged a glance. Always effective communicators without words, Arya’s surprise composed itself almost immediately, but Gendry floundered. “What do you mean, Wildfire?” he asked, at last.

“Arya said she didn’t want a lofty family, but she married you, Papa, and you’re an important Lord. The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Someday Tytha or I will be Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. Maester Brymar says that’s why we have to study so hard and learn so much. So that we can help you someday.”

“I wasn’t always a Lord, love,” Gendry said, “Arya’s always been grander than me. When we met I was a baseborn smith’s apprentice and she was already a Lady—daughter of the Hand of the King. I called her milady.” His eyes twinkled daringly at Arya over Fyffe’s head.

“You still call her that,” Tytha said. 

Gendry turned to her, his eyes softening, “So I do. Because she is.”

“He does it to tease me,” Arya interjected, rolling her eyes. “Sansa was always better at being a lady than me. She likes to sew and dress hair, dance and listen to bards sing. That’s why my brother Jon gave me Needle and my father hired me a Braavosi waterdance master—I needed to stitch and dance differently.”

“When will we go?” Fyffe asked.

“You three will sail on my ship in a week or two. I’ll meet you at Winterfell in a little over a moon’s turn. I have some things to take care of first.”

“You’re going away again?” Tytha probed.

“Just a short trip this time,” Arya reassured her, “But you all will have a good time sailing North together on my ship.”

~~~~~~~

“Should I explain it to her, d’you think?” Gendry’d asked later as they were preparing for bed, “That we’re not wed?”

“What’s the harm in her thinking we are?” Arya asked. “It doesn’t change anything.”

Gendry stared at her. This was the woman for whom it made, apparently, all the difference in the world. 

“You know the answer to that,” Gendry answered his voice ominous: “Other people. She’s never known the stigma of being a bastard and here, at Storm’s End, young and important enough as she is, nobody’s disabused her.”

“The thing I’ve never understood about bastardy is how it ties in with legitimacy,” Arya mused. “It’s so clearly based on a man’s perspective it’s almost funny how much it distorts things. A bastard is illegitimate solely because its parents weren’t wed to one another. A bastard can be made legitimate by a man by his claiming of it—whether or not it’s actually his. A bastard can be born legitimate because its mother is wed to another man and she passes it off as his—unless the man finds out. But a bastard is never considered legitimate when born to an unwed woman. Even if she’s noble. If all of Westeros watched me give birth tomorrow my child wouldn’t be entitled to my name. Would never be entitled to my name.”

Gendry side-eyed the scrollwork box on the nightstand. “Are you…?” he began. She’d said her cycles weren’t regular but there had been those awful days before King’s Landing where he might have missed something. 

Arya’d caught his darting glance and cut him off, “I’m taking it. Definitely not. But I take your point,” she said, returning to the matter at hand. “What have you told them about themselves? Fyffe knew that she was ‘the legitimized daughter of Lord Gendry Baratheon’ when we met.”

Gendry grinned, “She’d learned that speech by rote. I didn’t want to chance you showing up some day, finding a child in my chambers, and gutting her because you thought I’d taken up with someone else.” 

Arya raised her eyebrows at him.

“It’s possible!” he insisted.

With a conceding tip of her head, Arya acknowledged, “You’re not wrong.” 

Climbing into bed, Gendry resumed, “But I don’t think she’s ever understood what that meant. She and her uncle Eon are close—you’ve seen that. He talks to her about her mother and their parents. She knows she had a twin brother who died with them. She knows how she came to Storm’s End, but it probably sounds like a fairy story. Something terrible happened before she can remember but I was searching for her, found her, and all was well. Children don’t ask for explanations about things they don’t see. Her mother’s never been alive to her so our relationship hasn’t ever crossed her mind. She died. I didn’t. I’m who she has.” 

“But that won’t last as she grows. She’ll start to have questions as she puts more pieces together. I can’t—and _won’t_—speak for you to them about their mothers—you’re right to prepare for that,” Arya said thoughtfully, joining him in the bed. “I would like to know how she came to the conclusion that we’re wed though.”

Gendry shrugged, raising his arm and welcoming her closer, “That’s not hard to put together. I talked about you all the time. It kept you alive for me and seeing the idea of you come alive in her made me happy. And she’s never seen me as…attached to anyone else. My advisors tried. Before Fyffe came, it was one of the issues they kept bringing to the table—putting names forward. I kept telling them that I had other priorities but after Fyffe’s arrival they got worse. Some didn’t want me to legitimize her—she was evidence that I was capable of fathering children—for them that was enough. But once I’d followed through with Bran and informed them that Lady Fyffe was my heir and I had no intention of marrying anyone, they backed off. Once in a while my bannermen or visiting lords get it into their heads that they should bring their daughters or nieces or maiden sisters with them, but faffing about in the Round Hall hasn’t ever been my style, so I’d just retire and go to the nursery after the meal. I’d play with Fyffe, and—later—Tytha, and talk more about you. About how you were out there and someday you’d come back. You’ve always been our family.”

Arya lay quiet in the shelter of his arms. The picture he’d painted warmed her heart: them caring about her and wishing her well when she didn’t even know two of the three existed. She raised her face to kiss him, long and tender. “Well, talk about Winterfell while I’m gone so they know what to expect,” she said snuggling into him, one hand meandering under the covers, “But let’s get warm first, it can be cold in the North, even during a long Spring.” 

~~~~~~~

Starks were not known for their subtlety when it came to vengeance. The Faceless Men, however, were legendary at the art. One could never be certain that a Faceless Man had come calling as, more often than not, the deaths they dealt appeared natural--though sudden and unanticipated. She had honed the skills, but Arya Stark had always felt an inclination towards the drama of justice. She’d answered the Red Wedding with the Feast of the Freys. Lulled Littlefinger into the theatre of a hearing before carrying out the sentence already laid upon him. She considered her father’s words, “The one who passes the sentence should be the one to swing the sword.” Or loose the hounds, she thought, recalling Sansa’s revenge on the Bolton bastard.

This time, however, it would be best to take a slightly more understated approach. Further gentle probing of Tytha had ascertained that the girl didn’t believe her mother or Maegor Baelryn had any notion of how Hos tormented her. Her mother was an overworked but generally contented woman and her husband worked hard providing for their ever-expanding brood. They were all well-fed and clothed. The biggest cloud in their sky had been Tytha who kept trying to run away for no discernable reason. And the hero of the tale—to them—was always Hos who would search obsessively until he found her and brought her back. One bad apple shouldn’t condemn the entire bushel, but that apple should be removed before it spoilt the lot. 

She was nearly there. She had set off as the crow flies rather than taking the King’s Road as such a route held the promise of a shorter journey. She made for Longtable—that being the closest town to Maegor Baelryn’s steading—plotting her first move: reconnaissance. Hos was fifteen years old when Tytha left two years ago—he’d be a man grown now. It was even possible he’d moved away, though he hadn’t done so prior to Old Arlen’s visit to Storm’s End the previous year. She deemed it possible, but unlikely. By all accounts the farm was a successful one and Maegor Baelryn needed all hands. Besides, the boy was his eldest—his heir. She scowled thinking about what that might mean for his step-mother, step-brother and half-brothers should Maegor ever pass: Tytha was well out of it. 

At Grassy Vale she made arrangements to board her horse for a time and ventured forth on foot in plain clothes, hitching rides with obliging wagons as she could. “She’d been offered work with the Merryweathers of Longtable,” she said, whenever asked. Having sought-out and struck-up an acquaintance with the youngest son of that family while in King’s Landing, (he was a Gold Cloak of the City Watch) she was reasonably up-to-date with the names and concerns of the area. 

Arya hadn’t decided what she should do about the other two boys Tytha witnessed assaulting the girl that day. She hadn’t wanted to press for too many details. She hadn’t been given their names. She knew only that the boys were from neighbouring farms and often herded sheep together. If an opportunity for correction presented itself, she would take it, she thought. 

Late one afternoon, she arrived in Longtable and took supper at an inn on the outskirts called Maelor’s Egg. The place was clean and well-established, the serving girl no more than twelve. Arya asked her if she knew of a family called Baelryn living in the area. The girl had hushed her, looking back over her shoulder apprehensively toward where the inn-keep, her father, was pouring drinks. “The son keeps coming ‘round half-joking to Da that he should let him wed me, but Da don’t like him. Says I’m not to talk to him and get upstairs when he comes in.”

Arya nodded, “I imagine your Da knows best.” She enjoyed her supper. Before leaving, she enquired of the innkeeper the best route through the town to House Merryweather and whether he could grant her—a woman alone and new to the town—any cautions about its streets or inhabitants before she was on her way. He was very obliging.

Two days later, as the hour of the wolf howled its last, Hos Baelryn was found dead outside the tavern where he’d been drinking all evening. He’d last been seen with an unfamiliar—but very pretty—blonde woman with grey eyes. His privy parts were dangling from his mouth and around his neck hung a sign marked with a single word: raper.   
Arya trusted that would be sufficient deterrent for his friends. 

On her way north, Arya stopped at the Inn at the Crossroads. She was pleased to find Hot Pie was still the resident baker, and that he had acquired a plump, capable wife and several round-faced children over the intervening years. She spent the night sharing their hospitality and stories from her travels. As the night grew late she’d smiled at Hot Pie and offered, “If you ever grow tired of innkeeping, I know you’d be welcome at Storm’s End. Gendry’s kitchens are well-staffed, but you’re a better baker.”

Hot Pie’s eyes had grown wide as he probed, “And you can just…make an offer like that…on his behalf?”

The question disconcerted Arya. She hadn’t really considered whether or not she _could_, just that it seemed natural and right that she _would_. But she had no right to do so. She’d become so accustomed to everyone at Storm’s End accepting her requests and demands in the same way everyone had always done at Winterfell or aboard her ship, or, recently, in King’s Landing. In each of those other situations, she was a member of the ruling House or Command. Feeling unsettled, she drank the dregs from her cup before wryly acknowledging, “I think you can consider it a standing offer, but he’ll send you a raven to confirm, I expect.” In the morning, she mounted her horse, settled her shoulders, and quickened her pace. Gendry and the girls would be sailing north by now and she wanted to arrive at Winterfell before them, if she could. 

~~~~~~~

The girls spent hours on deck. Fyffe liked the feel of the wind on her face from the prow and Tytha wanted to watch the shoreline change as they moved. Both of them had taken to the sea well. Sleeping alone in Arya’s cabin, Gendry found himself imagining what life must have been like for her. He liked her crew. He’d met one or two, briefly, six years ago during his week on board and become acquainted with many more on their jaunt to and from King’s Landing, but this time he wasn’t constantly distracted by her hand running up his thigh under the dining table during meals. They told stories about her too—stories she’d never tell about herself—now that she wasn’t listening and scowling formidably at them as a deterrent. 

His favourite one so far had been imparted to him by the cook. She’d joined the crew in Jinqi. Arya had visited her food stall several times, evidently preferring it to any other in the marketplace. One day, a man who had been pestering her for many months and who was growing more threatening with each denial, was there. He’d purchased her stall from the market council and was attempting to blackmail her into marriage to preserve her livelihood. Arya had interposed herself between the cook and the man, saying, “I understand why he’d want the benefit of your food for the rest of his life, but why should that mean that you’re saddled with him? We need a cook on my ship. I can’t guarantee we’ll ever come back, but if you’d like to sail with us, you’d be welcome.” The translator had blanched—this was a powerful man in Jinqi. But the cook had chosen the uncertainty of the seas with Arya over the acquisitive man. In time, she and another crew member had fallen in love and she was perfectly content, years later, with her rash decision. 

One evening, a hesitant knock sounded at his cabin door. Gendry opened it to find Tytha, in her nightgown, looking up at him apprehensively. “Are you not feeling well? Is it Fyffe?” he asked, surprised. 

“I’d like to speak with you…can I come in?” she asked. This was a first. He held the door wide and indicated that she could take a seat wherever she pleased. 

She sat, nervously, at the edge of one of the chairs. He sat opposite her, trying his best not to let his own nerves show. She fidgeted with her hands and cleared her throat a couple of times before finally beginning, “Septa Alynne and Lady Arya explained some more things to me but I have some questions that I don’t think they can answer. I think only you or my mama could. Can I ask you? Would that be alright?”

Gendry swallowed, nodding. 

“Did you love my mama?”

Gendry shook his head, slowly. “No,” he said seriously, “I didn’t.” He saw the next question coming before she could ask it, “And no, she didn’t love me either,” he concluded.

Tytha nodded sadly, as though she’d suspected it. Gendry’s heart contracted and he rushed to explain as best he could. “Sometimes, our bodies just want. You feel an attraction to a person and they feel attracted to you and your bodies feel good when you act on that attraction together. That’s what happened between your mother and I. She visited the forge where I worked and she liked the look of me. I liked the look of her. We spent a little time together and we made you. We didn’t know that we had. You don’t know right away…did Septa Alynne explain that part?”

Tytha nodded. “Right. Then,” Gendry continued, “She was travelling with your grandfather and they moved on. Far away from where I was. From that day to this one, I never saw her again. We didn’t spend enough time together for me to know if I ever could have loved her—or her me. But, Tytha, this is the most important thing…,” he scooched forward in his seat, took her small nervous hands in one of his strong ones, and, brushing her hair from her face fixed his eyes on hers saying, “I’m grateful every day that I’ve known you for the time we did spend together and her decision to keep you when she knew you were coming. She could have made other choices and she didn’t. She kept you. And because she kept you, I get to know you. You’re one of the greatest blessings the gods have given me. I may not have loved your mother, but I love you.”

Her face had filled with light as he spoke. She stood, hugging him around the neck. He hugged her back, gently and then fiercely, pulling her to sit in his lap. They sat silently, arms around each other for quite a while before she asked, “Can I ask about Fyffe’s mama?” 

Gendry shook his head. “No, my love. That story is for Fyffe when she’s old enough to hear it. All you need to know is that it is similar to your own. You know why Fyffe has been with me longer—her mother died and I found out about her first. That’s all.”

Tytha nodded against his chest, seemingly satisfied. The weight of her in his arms made him feel complete. She’d never allowed closeness like this before—she’d always seemed as though she were coated in a layer of frost that if melted threatened a storm-burst. He smiled against her hair. He knew what he wanted to call her. “Any more questions, Snowsquall? Because if not, it’s well past your bedtime.” 

She looked up at him curiously, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Just one more. Why aren’t you and Lady Arya wed? If you love each other?”

“I asked her once, years ago, before she went away. She knows I’d marry her. But it’s her decision. Not mine. And certainly not yours. So don’t go asking her questions about that, please,” he concluded giving the top of her head a kiss. She stood, nodding her agreement and kissed him goodnight before leaving the room. That night, Gendry fell asleep smiling.


	3. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya arrives for a visit at Winterfell followed shortly thereafter by Gendry. Interacting with Sansa's family sheds new light on their relationship.

Sansa was soaking her feet in one of the springs in the Godswood when a silent figure materialized beside her. She looked up, startled, then uttered a blasé, “Oh! It’s you.” 

“It is,” Arya replied, smiling down at her sister, “Need a hand up?” 

Placing one hand on her very pregnant belly, Sansa held out the other to her sister, who braced herself and helped lever the Queen of the North to her feet and step safely out of the water before they wrapped their arms around each other. As they broke apart, Arya’s face studied her sister’s stomach with mingled horror and intrigue, “How many are in there?”

“One healthy one. Gods willing,” Sansa smiled and pressed her sister’s hand to her lower left side where she could feel an elbow, or maybe a heel, making itself known. Arya’s eyes widened and Sansa couldn’t help but chuckle. “It won’t be much longer. I’m glad you got here before…” she sighed, “We’ve both fought harder battles with worse odds, but this isn’t an easy battle either. There’s always a chance…” She met Arya’s suddenly worried eyes and smiled radiantly, “I’m glad you’re home. Did you sneak in? Or did you deign to let the guards do their jobs this time?” 

Arya grinned, “You still need better guards. I thought Podrick would have that well in hand by now.”

“He does,” Sansa deadpanned, seating herself ponderously on a nearby bench, “You’re just cleverer than everyone else.”

Arya asked, “Has there been any word from Gendry?”

Sansa studied her sister’s face as she replied, “A raven from White Harbor two days ago. He’s landed safely.” Arya’s shoulders relaxed. A smile tugged at the corner of Sansa’s mouth, “Why didn’t you sail with him?”

“Something needed sorting first.”

“Do I want to know?”

“I doubt it. But thank you for advising him when you could. You opened doors for him only because I asked.” Arya could feel Sansa’s eyes examining her. 

“When did you know?” Sansa asked.

“Know what?”

“That you loved him.”

“When did you know that you loved Podrick?” Arya demanded, skirting an answer.

“If you listen to the bards I knew I loved him ‘_When the pain_—it’s a pun—_of father’s death ceased to haunt me and the pains_—another pun—_of my heart grew sore for the squire who, singing, that Long Long Night_—another pun, bawdier—_made the Winter Queen’s heart beat once more_.’ There are several verses but the puns get quite wearisome.”

Arya was tittering, “You always wanted to be in a song. Does he sing it to you?”

Sansa elbowed her in the ribs, “Don’t tease! There’s a song or two about you as well. I’ll request one tonight after dinner so can you enjoy hearing about, “_The bloody cold heart of the darkest Stark, who chased all the shadows away._” Arya burst out laughing, startling the birds from the trees above them. Both women looked up at the raucous cawing then at each other: “Bran,” they acknowledged. 

Sansa pointed to her shoes, laying discarded beside the bench, “Can you help me? I can’t reach anymore.” Arya nodded and knelt to work remarking, “I should think two Stark heirs for Winterfell would be enough. This all seems…burdensome.” Her sister appeared happy enough: she’d always wanted children, and she held her duty to the North sacred above all, but that paled, in Arya’s mind against everything else that had befallen her. She marveled again at her sister’s strength. 

“Would two have been enough for Father—if those two were Robb and Rickon? Besides, it’s no hardship getting myself in this condition,” Sansa gestured at her belly, “And you’d be surprised how aiming for this can add a certain _something_ to the process,” she added, a secret smile playing at her lips and a sparkle in her eyes.

“It _is_ possible to enjoy training without ever going to battle,” Arya retorted with an upraised eyebrow. She was thrilled that her sister found pleasure in her marriage-bed. Maybe the rumours she’d heard about Podrick were true. 

“Is that what you’ve been doing all these months in Storm’s End?” her sister asked, pointedly, “_Training_?”

“Among other things,” Arya said, airily, sitting beside her on the bench. Sansa was a little surprised that she’d admitted it. “I had some gifts made for you. And I’ve gotten good with Gendry’s girls. Have to see how I do with boys. When can I meet yours?”

“Soon. When they’re done lessons.” She held out her hand and Arya stood, helping her up. “What do they call you?” Sansa asked curiously, looping her arm through her sister’s as they began walking towards the main hall. 

“Arya, mostly. Lady Arya in company. Gendry insists.” Sansa smiled to herself at that. He obviously held quite the sway over her willful little sister.

“I hope Aunt Arya isn’t a title you’ll object to. It’s what we’ve always called you.”

Arya leaned her head against her sister’s shoulder. “I think that’s one I’m happy to claim. It’s not about who I’m supposed to be, so much as who I already am.”

It was an insight she hadn’t expected, but considering it, Sansa observed thoughtfully, “Most titles are really. I know you never felt it—and Mother, Septa Mordane and I certainly didn’t help—but you were born a Lady. That means whatever and whoever you are or choose to be is a lady. A title isn’t one thing any more that a person is only one thing. Like the Seven Faced God: we’re many.” 

“Does becoming a Queen or a King mean that you have to go about pronouncing deep ineffable thoughts at people,” Arya jokingly moaned, “You and Bran—bad as each other.” Chuckling together, they moved towards the hall. 

~~~~~~~

For the first time, in the recent history of Winterfell, Arya Stark waited alongside her extended family in the courtyard to greet a visiting noble’s entourage: The Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Gendry Baratheon. She hated standing about in this ridiculous fashion and grew more and more antsy as the procession wound its way through Winter Town and into the castle. Sansa reached down squeezing her fingers in a reassuring way and Arya felt equal parts infantilized and grateful. As he rode through the gate, she suddenly felt as she did six years ago when he’d appeared in Jon’s entourage. Her stomach fluttered. A light came into her eyes. Her cheeks flushed. 

Sansa side-eyed the change with a knowing smirk. Podrick stood on her left, his arm supporting hers. She tucked her hand under his, entwining their fingers briefly, lightly caressing his palm with her nails before resuming their formal pose: she felt him shiver and his cheeks flushed like Arya’s. Sansa’s smile grew marginally wolfish before settling into one of gracious welcome: she was finding this visit entertaining. 

Gendry dismounted and bowed to the Queen, Podrick, their boys—Payne and Rickard—before turning to Arya and bowing deeply. As he had done in his own hall at Storm’s End, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, his eyes never leaving hers. Unlike Storm’s End, which had erupted in excited murmurs and muttering, Winterfell went silent. The Hero of Winterfell had barely returned and a southron lord appeared ready to steal her away. Sansa cleared her throat. They were being a bit—obvious—for northern tastes: the air crackled between them as if Gendry had brought the lightening of the Stormlands with him. He released Arya’s hand and turned, gesturing to the two young girls who had dismounted but stood politely behind him. “Queen Sansa, may I present my daughters: Lady Tytha, Lady Fyffe.” Both girls curtsied deep and prettily. They each stole glances at Arya as they did so as if seeking her approval. Arya’s eyes beamed as she nodded to each, smiling her praise. Sansa sucked in a startled breath. The nod and smile were Catelyn Stark’s to the life. “_Mother’s Mercy!_” Sansa thought, “She’s become one herself, whether she knows it or not.” It suddenly dawned on her how important this visit might be, for The North and the Six Kingdoms. 

“You are all very welcome to Winterfell, Lord Gendry, Lady Tytha, Lady Fyffe,” Sansa proclaimed. “You were here many years ago,” she said, her voice rising to catch the ears of those further removed, “before and during the Long Night. You were not a Lord then, but your efforts on behalf of All Men earned you an honoured place in our ranks. You were granted your titles here, at Winterfell. You shed blood, here, at Winterfell. You kept faith here, with the Starks of Winterfell, and with our brother Bran, King of the Six Kingdoms. You will always be welcome here.” There was a murmur at that. Many remembered the young smith who had worked tirelessly designing and forging dragonglass weapons and fighting alongside them with a giant warhammer throughout that long battle with the dead. A cheer began to rise throughout the courtyard and was caught up by the crowd outside the walls as well. “Come,” Sansa said, “You must be tired from your journey.” On Podrick’s arm, she led the way into the Great Hall. 

~~~~~~~

Arya had assumed that Gendry would simply join her in the chambers assigned to her once he’d arrived. But Sansa—darn her eyes—had allotted him quarters quite a distance from her own. She’d _said_ that was so that he and the girls would be close together. Arya was growing tired of playing bedroom politics everywhere she went. Her rules on her ship, his rules at Storm’s End, her sister’s rules in Winterfell. It hadn’t struck her until this moment that Bran’s rules hadn’t been irksome at all—he’d assigned them an apartment with only one bedchamber—but that had been during the rift in relations during which Gendry had chosen to sleep apart when he could. Until he couldn’t. Once again, Arya stood in mingled awe and terror at her brother’s ability to see all, everywhere, and the way he maneuvered them all like chess pieces. 

Regardless, it had been more than a moon’s turn since she’d last lain with Gendry and the lightning that sparked between them in the courtyard hadn’t been an illusion. She felt it still, thrumming in her veins. An idea came to her and she sent a servant to Lord Baratheon telling him that there were excellent bathing pools fed by hot springs deep under the castle and that Lady Arya had arranged for him to have the opportunity to use them before dinner if he wished. She thought that sounded sufficiently…hospitable. 

When he arrived, she was sheltered beneath the ledge that surrounded the pool. The servant showed him in, indicated where he might find soap and towels, and left, closing the door behind him. Before dropping the door-bar into place, Gendry hopefully inquired of the seemingly empty room, “Arya?”

She pushed herself away from the side, floating blissfully on her back, naked in the water. Gendry’s eyes devoured her from across the room as he shed his clothing hastily. She could see his cock rising as he stepped towards the lip of the pool. She fanned her arms in the water, propelling herself back to him, but as he placed one foot on the steps into the pool she called, “Hold up!” He froze. “You’re supposed to be bathing,” Arya teased, “Don’t forget the soap!” 

Bowing, he grinned and replied, “As milady commands!” Soap and washcloth in hand, he splashed in, eagerly, grabbing her ankle and towing her the rest of the way. “Shall I bathe milady first, or is she offering to bathe me?”

A wave of water engulfed him, “You first,” she laughed, as he spluttered, taking the cloth from his hand and soaping it well. He bent his knees a little, bobbing in the water as she came behind him, scrubbing his neck and shoulders and massaging his scalp with her fingers. He leaned back against her shoulder floating as her arms wrapped under his, the cloth tracing the lines of muscles along his shoulders and chest. As she rinsed him, she followed those same lines with brushes of her lips, or light nibbles of her teeth. “I missed you,” he said, his voice husky, “Did everything go…,” She bent her face over his, nodding, kissing him silent, upside down. He turned in her arms, sinking into the water, before gathering her against him. Her arms circled his neck, their lips and tongues tangling in long-awaited welcome. He caressed her back, palming broad comforting circles against her shoulder blades and squeezing her shoulders. Her teeth grazed his earlobe sending shivers racing down his spine. Retaking his lips, she wound her legs around his hips. She could feel his cock—hard, but swaying between her thighs in the currents of the pool like a fish. Kissing her neck, Gendry fumbled under the water, taking himself in hand. He pressed the tip above her entrance and she gasped against his mouth, rocking her hips forward. They sighed against one another’s mouths as he filled her. Joined, they gazed deep into each other’s eyes. The buoyant heat of the water made everything easier. Using his shoulders for leverage, she bobbed along his length. Ripples spread outwards from them in the pool as she moved, bouncing back off the walls creating delightful eddies of sensation. She heard his breathing catch in his throat and she could tell his release was imminent. She pushed herself off and away from him suddenly, letting the water swallow her. She grinned at his groan of frustration. The water felt wonderful, but it made everything softer—she needed more pressure and she didn’t want him finishing before she was satisfied herself. His hands groped in the water after her. She dove, darting between his legs and came up behind him, lifting herself out of the water and perching on the edge of the pool. He turned to her, surprised as she lay back against the stones, on her elbows, widening her legs and quirking one eyebrow at him invitingly. His grin grew wolfish as he moved between her thighs, stroking her with his fingers before adding his tongue. She peaked quickly, arching off the stones, her cry echoing endlessly around the cavernous room. Pushing him away with a foot on his chest, she slid back into the water. Guiding him backwards to a spot where she knew there to be an underwater seat, he grunted in surprise as he nearly fell backwards over it. Her hand on his chest, she pressed him into it and, turning her back to him, stood, water cascading down her body before him. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, watching the beads of water on her skin shimmering in the torchlight. He smoothed his hands down the line of her back, drawing along the curve of her sides and hips. He wrapped his arms around her, grasping her breasts and pulling her backwards against him. She leaned into him, her fingers finding and stroking his cock under the water, teasing him. He sucked on her neck and shoulder as he fondled her, one hand drifting lower to tug and play in the curls at the junction of her thighs. When they were both breathing hard, struggling to hold out, Gendry suddenly flipped her around, grabbed her behind the knees and said, “Float.”

She did. Arms drifting above her head, she watched the water cascading off him as he stood. He looked like a water god: broad chested, wet and glistening. With a catch in her throat, Arya remembered that he was supposedly descended from the God of the Sea. In this moment, she could believe it. He towed her back towards him in the water, and she felt him, slippery as an eel between her legs. The eel prodded once before slithering inside her. Darting quickly and shallowly it was all she could feel apart from the feather-light tug and push of his hands on her arse. The tip of him probed her quickly in tiny movements and then finally in one deep one. She sighed. That was what she wanted. But the quick, tiny movements came again. She clenched her inside muscles, squeezing around him. Trying to hook him like a fish. He rewarded her with a deep thrust. She kept up the movements and she could feel the tension inside her building. Soon, she was spiraling from the inside out, sighing his name. After a few more thrusts he held her hips against his, grunting his own release. He let her go and she floated away. As he subsided into the water himself, her questing hand brushed his and gripped his fingers: a steady tether against the currents of the pool trying to separate them. They drifted that way until a knock at the door and an inquiring servant’s voice roused them to the fact that they would both be late for dinner.

~~~~~~~

“Were you sparring?” Sansa inquired, eyeing the darkening bruise on her sister’s neck with one artful eyebrow quirked, as Arya took her seat at the high table for the evening meal. 

“Bathing, actually. Why?” Arya asked, oblivious. 

Sansa snorted, “Well, then, you missed a bit. On your neck.” Before Arya could answer, Sansa inhaled a sharp breath, a frown creasing her brow. She set down the cup she’d been about to drink from and pressed a hand firmly against the side of her lower belly. Arya watched her, her own hands paused above her cup and plate. Massaging her side with firm back-and-forth strokes, Sansa’s face relaxed and Arya picked up her fork, raising her own enquiring eyebrow at her sister. “It’s been happening all afternoon,” Sansa explained, “It’s normal.”

“Like cramps?” Arya asked.

Sansa took a sip from her cup, nodding then added, “To begin with. Then much, much worse.” Her fingers clenched around the cup, forehead wrinkling again, and she exhaled heavily through her nose. “I think,” she said once the pain had passed, “That I’d better retire. Arya?”

“Do I tell Podrick? Or any of your ladies?” Arya murmured, rising to help her sister to her feet. Noticing, the entire hall rose out of respect for their Queen. Sansa tapped her arm gently, silencing her. “Please be seated,” Sansa said to the assembly, “Lord Baratheon, I beg your indulgence as I leave you to the care of my husband for your first evening at Winterfell. I expect another feast of celebration to follow shortly, but for now I must retire.” A ripple of excitement ran through the Hall. On Arya’s arm, Sansa exited. 

They’d nearly reached Sansa’s apartments when Podrick rushed up behind them. Pulling her sister tightly into his arms, he’d kissed the top of her head, held her face between his hands, gazed deeply into her eyes and kissed her as though he were leaving for battle. Only he wasn’t, Arya realized, _she was_. Sansa clung to his arms, whispering something in his ear. Arya turned, stepping away down the corridor. This was private. She shouldn’t be here, watching. “Arya?” her sister called. She turned. Podrick was kneeling, whispering something to Sansa’s belly, his hands cradling her bulge as if in prayer, Sansa’s hands resting over his. “Pod’s going back to the hall in a minute. I’d like you to stay with me, if you would.” 

Arya could only nod. This was the kind of women’s work she’d always meant to avoid. Tears welling in her eyes, she watched her brother-in-law press a gentle kiss to the bulge before rising to press another to his wife’s lips. He nodded at her, turned on his heel, and strode away. He was a man of few words, but his manner and actions spoke loudly. He cherished her sister. Arya felt so grateful to him for that.

Podrick and Gendry, having never spent time with one another before, but finding themselves surplus to needs in Winterfell that night, remained companionably in the Great Hall through the wee hours of the morning. Gendry hadn’t known exactly what to do—he’d never been in the man’s place himself—his own children having been delivered to him fully-formed persons riding on wagon seats. But he did what he could to distract him, refilling his cup with ale and talking of the trip from Storm’s End to White Harbor, the state of King’s Landing on his last visit, and passing along what he knew of the people they had in common. Bringing up Ser Brienne made Podrick push his cup away however, and Gendry had looked at him questioningly. “She always wanted me to keep my wits about me, and she was never wrong about that,” Podrick offered by way of explanation. 

“Arya doesn’t drink either,” Gendry shared. 

As both men were well-past tipsy and making good time along the road towards drunk, they switched to water. When he returned from taking a piss, sometime in the darkest hours of the night, Podrick had looked up from the fire at him and suddenly asked, “You remember that night we fought _Them_?” 

Gendry nodded solemnly as he seated himself, “Never forget it. Worst thing I ever hope to see in this world or the seven hells beyond. Try not to think about it, but...” He starred into the fire, remembering the constant swing and turn of his arms, the thud of his hammer against body after body after endless decaying body. The smell of the burning dead, his own fearful sweat, the frigid night, and the overheated burn of his muscles. The feel of the ash and snow mingling on his exposed skin—getting in his eyes. How his hands couldn’t let go of the shape of the hammer for hours after he’d dropped it. He shivered involuntarily, cleared his suddenly choked throat, and scrubbed a hand over his face to help him erase the memories. 

“Each time I do this—the waiting I mean,” Podrick clarified, gazing steadily into the flames, “Waiting to find out if she’s alive. If we have a healthy child. If what I’ve done to her—done _with_ her—has brought us life or death. I think of her waiting with all the others down in the crypts. What that must have been like for her. Hearing nothing. Seeing nothing. Sensing the odd tremor in the earth. Not knowing what’s coming or when. Imagining everything. And then the dead rising and none of them prepared to fight.” 

Gendry’s mouth had gone dry, listening to the man speak. He stood, walked over to Podrick and placed a hand on his shoulder saying, “The dead aren’t going to rise, man. She’ll be fine. They’ll both be fine.” 

“That’s the thing,” Podrick replied softly, “You never know. And you’re never equipped.”

As the day broke, Sansa’s daughter made her grand entrance. Her aunt pulled her from between her mother’s legs at the behest of the midwife and cut the cord, freeing her into the wide world. The slice of her knife through the membrane was unlike any other Arya had dealt: it brought only life. Words she had shared with Sansa before resonated inside her again as she watched her sister snuggle the baby close, staring rapturously into her tiny face.

> _“You never would have survived what I survived.”   
“I guess we’ll never know.”  
“I never could have survived what you survived.”  
“You would’ve. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”_

“How do you keep doing this?” she asked, finally. “She’s beautiful, Sansa, but it’s a terrible, wonderful thing.”

“Isn’t life?” answered her sister.

~~~~~~~

Catrya Stark held everyone in Winterfell in the grip of her tiny perfect fingers. The bells were rung and toasts to her health, intelligence, strength, and beauty rang through the hall for a solid week following her birth. 

Gendry and Pod had formed a fast and abiding friendship. Arya sparred with Podrick daily and grew to admire his perseverance and determination as much as she did his devotion to their mutual family. Most days, Gendry would watch and take wagers from the four children as to who the winner of the challenge would be; some days, he’d enter the fray himself. On those occasions, all three adults would emerge winded but laughing to the gleeful sound of children’s cheers. 

But it was the children who brought things to a head.

Payne Stark, aged four, was a sage little soul with his father’s looks and his mother’s studied demeanor. Rickard Stark, with ruddy-brown hair and his mother’s features--just barely three years--held himself with the quiet determination of his sire. Neither of them were prepared for the whirligig that was Fyffe Baratheon. Lady Fyffe was always having _ideas_ and she never ceased prattling. Being used to a family composed of quietly calm, measured, and steadfast people, the Stark boys found Lady Fyffe’s bubbling energy exhausting. 

All were in the nursery solar together one afternoon and Fyffe was snuggling the baby when she said, “Catrya is so sweet. Sweeter even than Nymeria. I’d like a baby of our own someday.”

Payne had harrumphed, loudly, and replied, “Your father’d have to get wed first.” He wasn’t being mean, he’d said it as one stating an obvious fact of existence.

Tytha, across the room, saw the coming conflict brewing and rose, whispering to Rickard that he should go find either of his parents or her father and get them to come to the nursery immediately. She hadn’t said Arya, recalling as she did her conversation with Gendry as they sailed north. But when Rickard returned it was with all four adults. By that time, Tytha was soothing the baby, Fyffe was red-faced and sobbing, Payne looked stricken and bewildered, and all were upset.

Queen Sansa held out her arms for Catrya and Tytha gratefully handed her over. It had been more than two years since she’d last bounced a babe in her arms—her half-brother Maekor had been the last—and she’d forgotten how shrill their cries could be. Podrick knelt, his hand on Payne’s shoulder asking him to explain what was going on. Gendry had done the same beside Fyffe, but she’d flung herself into his arms, sobbing on his shoulder. Gazing stoically at the general upheaval around him, Rickard had, nevertheless, sought to comfort himself by holding Aunt Ary’s hand as they stood in the doorway. She looked down as his little hand attached itself to hers. She gave it a squeeze and he squeezed back, looking up at her with eyes that said, “I’d like to be somewhere else now.” She acutely understood the sentiment. 

As Payne finished murmuring, Podrick nodded at his son and stood, murmuring something in turn into his wife’s ear, his hand resting on Payne’s head. Sansa’s eyes had flared slightly and darted towards Arya before returning to Pod’s. Arya watched them have a conversation entirely without words before Podrick took the baby from Sansa and said to his sons, “Come on lads, we’re going outside.” The boys followed him obediently. Rickard gave Arya’s hand another squeeze before letting go. It made her smile. It was as if he’d been reassuring her that although he was leaving her to whatever _this_ was, she was still alright with him. Glancing again at her sister’s stoic face, she wondered if Rickard knew something about that face that she no longer did. 

Sansa sat herself gracefully in a chair, turned to Tytha and said, “My son says that he said something that was true, but that it upset Lady Fyffe. He doesn’t understand why she’s so distressed. But since you sent Rickard to find us, it seems that you might have some explanation. Perhaps you could enlighten us, Lady Tytha? 

Tytha cast a searching look at her father and he nodded at her over Fyffe’s head. She glanced quickly at Arya, took a deep breath and focused on the Queen, “Payne said that Father wasn’t wed to Lady Arya. Fyffe didn’t understand and he didn’t understand that she didn’t understand…” she trailed off. The queen was nodding at her, her expression sympathetic.

“Is _that_ what all this is about, Wildfire?” Gendry asked, astonished, holding his daughter by the elbows and pulling away slightly so that he could look into her eyes. She nodded, tearfully, at him. “Arya and I aren’t wed, as it happens, Fyffe. We’re not unhappy about it. Why should it make you so unhappy?”

A puzzled expression appeared on Fyffe’s round face, “But…Papa…she’s _your Lady_. You _love her_. And when you love someone you make them your family. You said so,” she asserted. Gendry looked at her perplexed. 

“You said!” Fyffe insisted again with a stomp of her foot, “You said!” She huffed a breath and tried again. “You said when you told us what ‘legitimized’ meant. You said that word was an important word because it told everybody that I was your family. That I belonged to you. That Tytha belonged to you. That you loved us and nobody could take us away or take Storm’s End away from us because we weren’t just your blood family, we’re your legitimate family. Arya’s not even blood family. So how does everyone know that she’s our family too? She is, isn’t she?” The lengthening silence and persistently strange expression on Arya’s face made Fyffe’s eyes well again with tears. “Why doesn’t she get to be legitimate?” she concluded, stubborn and reproachful. 

Arya had thought her heart thawed and mostly mended, but it melted now in a manner she couldn’t have foreseen—never expected. She saw in Fyffe an echo of herself asking Gendry to be her family so many years ago. The eyes with which he gazed at his daughter now held the same resigned regret they had that day, denying her then. Her heart wrenched itself and it felt as though the daggers the Waif had wielded against her came alive inside her, tearing her apart again. She placed a hand on Gendry’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. He was rubbing his thumbs over the backs of Fyffe’s small hands comfortingly, but glanced up at her briefly, his expression reconciled.

Sansa watched the scene playing out across the room. She could see that Gendry held no hope that Arya would reconsider the choice she’d made years prior. She could also fully comprehend the child’s logic and the intricacy of thought it required. She was curious how either her sister or Gendry would be able to deny it without shattering the child’s self-image. The question spun itself in her own mind, “Why doesn’t she get to be legitimate? Why doesn’t she _want_ to be legitimate?” Sansa knew it was fear. Fear of failing at what was expected of her. Fear of constriction, of loss of herself. Fear of losing again what they’d lost as children. When you had things and people to lose, things and people could be lost. She prayed in that moment that her sister was every bit as strong as she believed her to be.

Arya cleared her throat. Swallowed. Squeezed Gendry’s shoulder again and said, ever so softly, “I am your family, Fyffe. There’s something my father used to say when I was a child: _‘The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.’_ You are a part of my pack. I spent many years longer than I should trying to be a lone wolf. I thought it would keep me from getting hurt. But I kept accidentally forming different packs. Your father and Hot Pie. The Hound. My crew. You.” She paused. All three Baratheons, and one Stark were hanging on her words. Arya mused, as though her thoughts were being pulled painstakingly from the depths of her being, “Years ago and faraway I heard of an old Valyrian rite: _‘wed in blood and fire’_, something from the early days of the Targaryen kings. I don’t know what it really means. I’ve met many gods as I’ve travelled. I think…,” 

Meeting Gendry’s eyes, she suddenly knew which road she was travelling:  
Clear as it had been the day she told the Faceless Men that she was Arya Stark and she was going home;   
Clear as it had been the day Hot Pie told her the Boltons were defeated and she had a home to return to;   
Clear as it had been when The Hound told her she’d die in the fires of King’s Landing if she stayed pursuing vengeance with him;  
Clear as it had been when she’d realized, on the other side of the world, that whichever direction she took would bring her full circle to Westeros and the man kneeling before her. 

“The night I defeated the Night King, your father and I wed in blood and fire. It wasn’t blessed by a septon, or witnessed by a weirwood, but in the face of Death we made a commitment to each other that it’s taken me miles and years to understand. I love him as he loves me. And…” Arya inhaled a shaky breath and felt an unlooked-for peace settle over her shoulders as she concluded, “We could make it…legitimate.” Her thoughts veered suddenly to Bran’s words, “We are more than the last of the Starks now.” He had meant _this_. All of this. 

A more unsteady man had never attempted to rise to his feet. Gendry’s face had gone ashen and slack with shock, but his eyes riveted on hers gleamed with a wonder that sparked into ecstatic joy. He swept her into his arms kissing her thoroughly, heedless of the presence of the children. Fyffe was jumping and dancing and squealing and pulling at both of them, attempting to join their embrace. They parted, laughing as she hugged their legs. 

Sansa had risen, beaming. Arya turned to her, “No fuss though. It’s just us. In the weirwood. With the Old Gods.”

“No Jon? No Bran?” Sansa asked.

Arya shook her head. “Unless they can get here by this evening, no.”

~~~~~~~

It was the sweetest of late spring evenings as Gendry watched Sansa escort Arya down the path to the heart-tree where he waited. She’d insisted upon claiming the honour in spite of Arya’s protests that she was more than capable of walking herself: she was the Queen, this was her home, and there was no higher-ranking member of the bride’s household. She had also insisted upon their septon administering the vows and the presence of their maester to make record of the event. Arya gave in with surprising good-grace. 

Fyffe and Tytha stood to one side, holding torches, both faces lit from within, feet tapping with excitement, Maester Fulvis behind them. On the other side of the path, Podrick and his boys patiently waited, holding torches as well. 

“Who comes before the Gods this night?” queried the Septon.

Arya replied, “Arya, of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and willing. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods.”

The septon asked, “Who comes to claim her?”

Gendry stepped toward her, his eyes shining, “Gendry of House Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands…and Smith.” He couldn’t help adding the last title, cheekily. 

“Who gives her?” the septon inquired.

Sansa couldn’t contain her quiet laughter at the very idea of the question as she replied, “She gives herself, but with the blessing of Sansa, of House Stark, Queen of the North and my lady’s sister.”

The Septon asked, “Lady Arya, will you take this man?”

Arya eyed him, up and down mischievously, before breaking into a wide smile and confirming, “I will. Everywhere.” 

Podrick and Sansa exchanged a look, his face flushing with suppressed mirth at Arya’s boldness before the gods.

“Lord Gendry, will you have this woman?”

“I will. As milady wishes. Always.” 

The septon bound their hands together with a braided cord of grey, white, gold and black. Gazing into one another’s eyes they recited, in tandem:

> _I am his/hers and he/she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days._

They kissed: long, sweet, and slow. The children cheered. A crow cawed. They knelt before the heart-tree where, only six years before, the bride had defeated the Night King. Gendry couldn’t bring himself to ask for anything more of the gods but felt his deepest gratitude for all the blessings already bestowed upon him. Arya silently prayed for as many blessings as the gods could grant upon the people in her pack. They did not exchange cloaks. Gendry had said it made no sense to do so. They didn’t have cloaks prepared and it would be ludicrous for him to wrap her in his cloak, when she and hers had done more to shelter him than he could ever hope to reciprocate.

The next morning, as the sun rose in the window casting its soft light over the entwined bodies of the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, the raven proclaiming the official turn of the seasons arrived from Oldtown. The Long Spring had ended, and Summer bided: sweet and full of promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more coming to this series--I think at least 2 more parts with various numbers of chapters. I will continue to post weekly until I reach the end.


End file.
